Issie and the Christmas Pony. Stacy Gregg
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“It wasn’t Apache’s fault!” Issie tried to stick up for the grey pony. “He was just scared.”
“I’m sure he was!” said Mrs Brown. “That big oaf is obviously very brutal to the poor animal. Your aunt was right,” she continued. “It’s a dishonest business buying and selling horses. That man was a total liar. I doubt that horse was even broken in. And did you see the state it was in? I’ve got a good mind to report him to the police.”
“Can we do that? Tell the police on him?” Issie asked. “Maybe they’d help Apache…”
Mrs Brown shook her head. “Honestly, Issie, I would call the police in a heartbeat, but I really don’t think they want to know about dodgy horse dealers. He’s not actually committing a crime, is he?”
“But he was really cruel and awful!” Issie insisted. She felt herself getting tearful again, but they were tears of anger this time. “We can’t leave poor Apache with him.”
“No,” Mrs Brown agreed, “we can’t. And I don’t intend to either.” She pulled the car up in the driveway of their house and strode inside. She went straight to the phone in the hallway and began to leaf quickly through the phone book.
“Who are you calling?” Issie asked.
“I don’t know. There must be a listing for a horse protection society or something in here. There must be someone who deals with people like that. They need to see how malnourished and mistreated that poor pony is.” She flicked through the book and found what she was looking for.
“Ah-here it is-The International League for the Protection of Horses. There’s a number here for the local ILPH branch.” Mrs Brown dialled the number and held the phone to her ear. “It’s ringing,” she said to Issie. “Quick! Run into the kitchen and get me a pen and paper.” Issie raced off and by the time she was back her mum was finishing up the conversation.
“Terrific,” she said. “Thank you so much. No, that’s great. We can come to you straightaway. If you give me your address, we’ll be there in five minutes…” She gestured to Issie to hand her the pen and then frantically scribbled something down.
Mrs Brown hung up the phone. “Well, that was the man from the horse protection league. He was very helpful. Turns out he doesn’t live far from here; he moved to Chevalier Point just a few months ago. I got his details-we can go round there now, fill in the paperwork and file a complaint.” She passed Issie the piece of paper she had just scrawled on. “Hang on to this for me. It’s the address. I’ll just grab my coat.”
Issie looked at the bit of paper in her hand, deciphering the familiar messy, looped letters of her mother’s handwriting. She had written the street address first: 127 Esplanade Drive. And there, beneath the address, were the words that would change Issie’s life forever: Tom Avery at Winterflood Farm.
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